The First Time
by doesitsaycolonel
Summary: Thoughts of what John Mitchell went through his first time in purgatory. Bit of swearing at some point.


_Hi_

_Given that the series is well and truly over, this idea was around after I saw bits of the pilot episode and the "Type 1" Mitchell and Annie were having a conversation about the door and the men with sticks. Plus the beginning of the third season highlighted this again._

_Many many thanks to iBounce for a total smoothing over of unfinished sentences and dialogue repair to the nth degree. There are also some nice touches that I am really pleased with that I hadn't thought about.. George's ring? Really appreciate it during this post Mitchell lull. Hope he's enjoying all that beardy activity swinging axes etc. Hope he realizes what he's put us through...! _

_Definitely on hols tomorrow and I am going to reply. I will I will I will I promise...I will but I want to say thank you again. Such lovely comments and thoughts, I truly appreciate it_

"Sticks and _**stones.**_" someone whispered.  
>"Sticks and <em><strong>stones<strong>_." someone murmured.  
>"Sticks... Men with sticks." the voice inside his head jeered.<p>

Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me. Rush pulse, rush pulse, rush... rush the blood... he felt his blood pressuring and forcing its way through his frail heart – through the artery that burnt like acid against this stranger's tongue.

The wait was endless, and yet instant. A blow to the chest. It hurt, and yet he had no body with which to feel. There was ...nobody ... with him he was ...himself and in his own head.

The light settled, dappled, and became a haze. He looked down, and found that he was still in the clothes he'd last remembered dressing himself in. The blood dripped past the breast pocket of his khaki jacket; the button was undone, a bloodied daffodil peaking from inside. He recalled the warmth of the bloods contact, the chill of the stranger's contact. His head shot up. He'd been bitten.

The yawning distance stretched in front of him as if he saw his insignificant place in the universe, it drew him away from his body in an instant and then threw him back with no thought for gravity.

There were ropes and whispers, creeping sensations under the skin that made him want to rip the flesh away and scratch, the noise running through his head grinding the fabric of his (in)sanity, and then there was the silence. No, more than that. An absence of sound; a chunk devoid of solitude.

He was in a corridor with no end. There were doors. There was a man.

-

He wore glasses, was tall, and looked concerned.

"I'm someone you are going, to meet. Have met, will meet.." he smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose as they fell. They were clearly too big but they seemed to be right that way. He spoke with a determined sweep of words.

Rage, rage - endless honest rage, instantly contained-

"This endless time, this omnipresence or singularity that we are in... it will just blow your mind away Mitchell."

The echo was rebounding around the walls that were suspended.

There was no air, he couldn't breath, he was drowning in a sea of silence, and then it stopped. The overwhelming desire to tear the lungs out of his chest dissipated. This was a bit of an understated relief.

"It's John. John's my name. Who are you and what's this... this ..place we're in – I didn't know anything was going to happen after that thing.. thing happened to me."

It was a long corridor– and there were doors, where-ever he looked.

The man stood up and then lent against the frame of one door, shifting his weight nervously, as if he thought the ground was going to ripple beneath his feet. He pushed his glasses up the rim of his nose and cleared his throat apprehensively. This seemed to be a habit.

"I've got to show you something. You, have.. a choice Mitch.. John." His mouth moved, but the sound followed afterwards, echoing across the walls like a speakerphone.

"I've chosen, don't you see? To save my men I said, this, I would... do this."

John knew he spoke, but the words came out as complete nonsense, nonetheless.

He wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't find their way. He gasped the words  
>out of his mind, fresh from the frontal cortex.<p>

"No. You willingly went to die , because you thought you were going to die, and you didn't think there was anything after. You can still make choices Mitchell, in fact you have to take choices. It's what keeps us human."

George said softly, a knowing smile gracing his lips. He fiddled with an object of interest he had kept in his pocket, soon revealing it to be a wedding ring.

Mitchell noticed this even though he had his own concerns. Maybe this shade was more than his conscience.

Suddenly, the light fizzled brighter, the colour of the walls dripping to the floor, leaving blinding whiteness in it's wake. The floor seemed wooden, and as George and the doors remained where they stood, John suddenly sensed pity from the look George was giving him, and scowled as the funny-looking man continued to speak. "You have to chose a door."

"Why?" Mitchell questioned, approaching a door, and running his hand across  
>the dented frame. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the man look on, sadness<br>etched into his features.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to say that a lot to you my friend. Its not just mistakes I make, its mistakes that we both make. My name's George"

-

"Jesus George, I'm dead and you want me to think about something else!"

Mitchell scratched at his face and took a cigarette from his pocket, fumbling with the lighter. George stared at the partly-distressed Irishman, and John glanced up questioningly. For that moment they faced each other as friends across a time and space they hadn't even met yet.

"Its that one, Mitchell." George said pointedly, indicating to the door to  
>John's right.<p>

"What now? Can you give me a clue here? This isn't really what I expected at  
>all. He said, he said... there would be pain, a lot of pain, and blood. I'm sure he said blood. Then he said I would wake up again and it would all be different. He didn't say how, he was like a door to door salesman trying to sell a bible for some place I never wanted to believe in. He's not the kind I would trust normally. Plus he was an officer, and I don't get on well.."<p>

John frowned. Being usually too lazy to participate in conversation, he never spoke  
>this much in his lifetime. Having only just died, he somewhat regretted that fact. Death must be a jaw liberating experience.<p>

George shook his head slightly.

"He said and says many things, but its different for everyone. Maybe you're meant to learn, maybe you wont know til you come back again what this is all for. Its this door, I think you're meant to open this, Mitchell."

John reached out to the door handle, and caressed it, as if undecided. George  
>put his hand over his, in a familiar gesture that surprised both of them.<p>

"I'll be with you. Ill always be with you." He paused, as if the name were difficult for him, "John."

John Mitchell turned the handle and heard the click of the door.

_Next few chapters will be written over the Atlantic...  
><em> 


End file.
